


never even scratched the surface

by ladyvivien



Category: Dollhouse
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-04
Updated: 2010-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyvivien/pseuds/ladyvivien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you think you know me, that's your trouble/never fall in love with a body double.</p>
            </blockquote>





	never even scratched the surface

**Author's Note:**

> title &amp; summary from Charlotte Gainsbourg's 'Jamais'.

Katherine Russell is his perfect woman. He's spent thousands on her – flowers, jewellery, more couture than he'd thought any woman's wardrobe could hold. He'd quite like it back now. He wonders what happens to it all when she goes back to the Dollhouse - do they share clothes like sisters, or do they keep them with whatever piece of computer programming they save her personality to?

Given that at one point he'd imagined himself in love with her, it is rather unnerving for him to discover that she doesn't exist. Whoever hired this house – which is clearly a brothel, now he comes to think of it, he wonders how many other men she's bedded here, how many other women she's been – didn't even bother to pretend that it was hers. All the mail is addressed to Adelle DeWitt, and now he comes to think about it, he doesn't remember seeing a single family photograph. Of course no one really lives here, it's just a beautiful showroom. Another example of the lifestyle they promise to their clients – _Join the Dollhouse and have imaginative, frighteningly flexible and utterly filthy sex with attractive women in beachside condos!_ He can see why one would be seduced by it. But not him, he does have some integrity.

He wonders who sent her – a business rival, perhaps, in an unorthodox means of corporate espionage. His mother, who is tired of having an international playboy as a son, and wants him to settle down even if it is with a living, breathing Barbie doll. But she never asks him about work (his job is terribly important, and involves travel and he has his own office and somehow he never feels like talking in more detail about it either), and she shows not the slightest interest in meeting his family. Christ, they never even leave the house. Perhaps she's a gift, but if so then he wishes someone had kept the receipt. He could probably buy a yacht with the amount she's costing somebody.

It makes sense now, the more he thinks about it. There was always something off about her, distant even when she was in his arms. And such a cliché – she's British, therefore she drinks tea by the gallon and can't express her emotions. Is this really what somebody thinks is his type? The repressed businesswoman on the surface who turns into a sex kitten once she's left the office? Bloody hell.

He hears her car – someone's car, anyway - pull into the driveway, but doesn't rise when he hears her high heels clack through the hall.

"Roger?" she calls.

"In here, darling," he replies, even though the endearment tastes acrid against his tongue.

"The bedroom?" she purrs as she leans against the doorway, "The way you anticipate my needs is nothing short of remarkable."

She doesn't let her green eyes leave his for a moment as she starts to unbutton her blouse. He stands up and stills her wrist and she raises an eyebrow. He won't let himself get distracted.

She frowns. "What's wrong?"

"You're a Doll," he says bluntly. Oh, he could spare her feelings but what's the point? Someone's been taking him for a ride, and he wants to find out who.

"_What_?"

Her response surprises him. He'd imagined hurt, shock, horror, even a guilty confession. Not laughter. He shakes her, as though that will make her take him seriously, as though it will somehow reset her.

"The mail" he explains, gesturing to the pile of torn envelopes on the floor. "This Adelle person, who is she? Your Madam? Is she who I have to thank for having some high class tart spread her legs for me for the past year? And this house – nothing here is real. It's what someone would dream up for a woman like you, it's beautiful but it's not lived in. This isn't a _life_."

She tilts her head to one side, considering his words. There's a flicker of hurt in her expression, but nothing like the pain he'd expected.

"All right," she shrugs eventually, a little smile flickering around the corner of her mouth. "I'm a Doll. I was created by some antisocial genius in a lab, entirely for your – " she moves her hand down his chest, resting on his belt buckle, and he's disgusted at himself that he reacts even when he knows what she is – "pleasure."

"How much?"

She names a figure, laughter in her voice. He doesn't see what's so funny, but maybe programmable sex toys have a different sense of humour.

"Is that the fee or the phone number?" he deadpans.

She rolls her eyes. "I'm very good. As I would imagine you remember."

Oh, he does. Even when his other memories feel hazy – a bruise he doesn't remember getting, the taste of applesauce in his mouth when he hasn't eaten it since he was a child – every encounter with Katherine is burnt into his mind as though that were his entire life.

She runs her finger over the little scar at the nape of his neck. She's always been oddly fascinated by it, and he reluctantly admires his anonymous benefactor's attention to detail.

"So now that you know the terrible truth," she asks drolly, "what are you going to do with me?"

"I should take you back to the Dollhouse," he growls. "Let them put you back in your box." Fear flares up in her eyes and he knows he should feel guilty. Should feel something, anything except the desire to remind her who she belongs to. She's a whore, that's what she's here for. To give him what he wants. Well right now, he wants to do something about the building desire that mingles with the anger. "But not before I get my money's worth."

When his mouth descends on hers she feels so good, so responsive and _alive_ that he almost forgets that she isn't real. As he fucks her, he reminds her what she is by using every crude synonym for prostitute that he can think of, but it isn't until he calls her a Doll that she comes.

Afterwards, he feels sick to his stomach, he wants her gone and then he wants to take a scalding hot shower to wash away all her pretty lies. There's something he's supposed to say to get her to leave, something he remembers from their conversations about the Dollhouse - a kind of command - but he can't remember what it is. He watches her dress, slowly because she's sore - her personality might be fake, but she's flesh and blood at least – and she smiles distantly as she hands him his trousers.

"Would you like a treatment, Roger?"

"You see what I mean?" he mutters. "You always know exactly what I need."


End file.
